Unclaimed

by Courtney Milan

  He set the decanter on the side table and sat on the divan. She might have said that he sat next to her, but it was a long divan, and he’d settled on the opposite edge from her. If she stretched out her arm full-length, and he held out his hand, their fingertips might scarcely touch. Still, a little frisson went through her. They were sitting…almost next to each other. The cushions against her back moved when he leaned back. Her hand stroked the silk of the seat.

  “To your health.” He raised his glass and drank.

  Jessica sniffed the liquid tentatively. Above the sweetness of apple, she scented something strong and raw. It tickled the back of her throat. “Sir Mark,” she said tentatively, “are you trying to inebriate me?”

  “I didn’t even give you an inch.” He raised one eyebrow. “Can’t you hold your liquor?”

  She pressed her lips together and focused on the challenge. “I could drink you under the table,” she informed him flatly. But her heart wasn’t in it. She raised the glass and took a gulp.

  She’d expected something smooth like cider. But what hit her was alcohol, raw and unfinished, burning her tongue, stealing the breath from her lungs. She coughed, barely swallowing the slug she’d taken into her mouth. This wasn’t the smooth taste of well-aged spirits sipped by gentlemen in London clubs. This was the sort of hash brewed by backwoods laborers, reserved for raucous gatherings. And then the effect of those spirits struck her, like a kick applied to the seat of the pants. It felt like a fire, igniting in her belly and pushing aside her worries.

  She cleared her throat and stared at the seemingly inoffensive liquid. “You could have warned me. This is a death trap.”

  “That, too, is a local tradition.” A small smile touched his lips, but faded as he looked at her. “And, truthfully, you looked as if you needed a bit of something to pick you up. I figured that would do the trick.” He took another sip from his glass. His gaze shifted from the apple brandy to her hands, wrapped around the tumbler. And then, he followed her arms, up, up until his eyes met hers. “Also, I believe I am trying to drown out my better self.”

  Fire? The brandy had nothing on the heat in his gaze. She might have found her forgetfulness in the look in his eyes alone. The dark need. The desire. It was all there, too much to grasp with both hands.

  Jessica took another gulp of brandy. Easier to swallow fire than to meet his eyes. If she’d had a better self, it was Amalie. “Lucky you,” she said bitterly. “I haven’t got one of those.”

  He picked up the decanter and poured himself another inch.

  “It’s not goodness that leads men and women to sin, Sir Mark,” she said. “It’s the dark, ugly portions that drive men and women together. Our better selves have no need to be held.”

  She’d not realized what she wanted until she said the words aloud. But perhaps that was why she’d come—not for unapologetic lust, not for mere physical intimacy, but for something that ran deeper than the blaze of want.

  She’d come for comfort.

  He took another swig and then met her eyes. “Need more brandy?” he asked conversationally.

  Jessica rubbed her neck tentatively. “It appears that the lining of my throat has not yet been entirely stripped away.” She held out her glass. “Why not?”

  He lifted the decanter. But instead of taking the tumbler from her hand, he slid across the divan toward her. His eyes held hers. His hand wrapped around hers. If the brandy had seemed hot as tongues of flame, Sir Mark was the heart of the fire. His fingers engulfed hers, steadying the glass as he poured.

  She pulled the cup to her mouth. He didn’t let his hand fall away, letting her draw him toward her until his hip rested against hers. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t dare drink. He was alive and warm, and when he touched her, he drove shadows from the dark corners of her vision.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m contemplating.” His voice was dark. “Thinking about right and wrong.”

  His hand slid down her forearm to cup her elbow. Her whole body leaned toward his. His other hand took her cup, set it on the floor next to the decanter. And then her fingers were wrapping around his arm, little shivers traveling through her.

  “I see you’ve decided against right.” Her voice shook.

  “Not precisely.” He leaned toward her, his face fitting into the space between her chin and her neck. She could feel his breath against her neck, his arm curling around her waist.

  How did he know that this was what she needed? That more conversation would have left her falling to pieces?

  How did he know to trace her chin with his thumb, to cradle her head in his hands? How did he know that she needed to rest her forehead against his? Because any other man in his position would have thought nothing of her comfort. He’d have wanted to claim her, not hold her.

  “You’re shaking,” he said.

  “I’ve had some bad news.”

  He didn’t demand that she divulge it. He didn’t demand anything of her, and that made her feel wrong and dirty—because she came to him for comfort, and he gave it without asking questions. It recalled her nausea of that afternoon once again. Her hands shook anew.

  If she seduced the one good man she’d met, she’d surely earn her place in hell. But if there was a hell, she’d already earned her place in it. That’s what it meant to be a fallen woman. She’d already lost all hope of heaven.

  All hope except the scent of Sir Mark, his arm wrapped around her now. If there was any such thing as salvation, surely it felt like the gentle kiss he laid on her throat. The feel of his nose, brushing against the line of her jaw. The light calluses on his hands, sliding across her shoulder.

  It didn’t feel like damnation when her fingers found his chin, when she lifted his head so that his eyes met hers. His mouth touched hers, sweet and gentle; her hands dropped to curl about his elbows, as if she could cradle the comfort he offered her. His kiss seemed some blasphemous prayer whispered against her skin. His lips caught at hers. His arms encircled her, as if she were some fragile, precious thing.

  And, oh, it felt good. He held her without restraining her—as if his every caress was a supplication. As if every touch of his lips was a question, one she could answer as she willed, and not a demand.

  There was only one answer. Yes. Yes with her tongue; yes with the heat of her breath; yes with her hands digging into his shoulders.

  And then his fingers were brushing up her ribs, setting her afire. His mouth slid down to her chin, her neck, leaving a cascade of warmth in his wake. His palm cupped her breast, his fingers exploring it. His touch was neither tentative nor practiced—just slow, excruciatingly slow, as if he were unearthing some kind of archaeological treasure, and he feared it would break.

  “Jessica,” he murmured against her skin.

  He’d found the nub of her nipple. She gasped as he circled it with his thumb. The pleasure was like drink—intoxicating, stealing away memories she wished forgotten.

  Her hands slipped down his chest to the wool of his waistcoat. Copper buttons twisted in her grip until she revealed the starched linen of his shirt, warmed to his touch. She tugged, and the tails came loose. She reached beneath the fabric.

  His skin was hot. His breath hissed in as her palms skimmed up the wall of his abdomen. His muscle tensed into hard curves under her touch, corded and inflexible. Any other man would have flipped her onto her back by now. His lips found the side of her neck. He kissed her slowly.

  “You know,” he whispered to her, “this afternoon, I had vowed never to talk with you again.”

  “Why ever did you change your mind?”

  He shrugged. “You were waiting on my doorstep. And I believe my first coherent thought upon seeing you was—so much for that promise, then. The resolution would not have lasted past seeing you. You may be utterly wrong for me, but I don’t believe I can give you up.”

  “That’s precisely how I feel. You’re the worst man on earth fo
r you to be.”

  “Am I so bad, then?”

  “So good.” She swallowed. “Sir Mark—the village gossips were too kind. I have been intimate with men who are not my husband.” She stopped, forced herself to go on. “More than one.”

  “Have you, then?” He didn’t move from her.

  “My morals are not what they should be. Surely you must know that by now.”

  “If you were truly bereft of morals, surely you would feel no compunction about lying to me. Is there anything else truly dire I need to know about you?”

  “Oh, Sir Mark. I don’t even know where to begin with my direness. At this point, I’ve made so many mistakes I’m riddled with impossibility.” She shrugged. “And it’s not just my…my lack of chastity.”

  “I suppose I should care about that.”

  “You don’t?”

  The fire cast his face into unforgiving shadow—an agony of expression that she could not dissipate. “Oh, no.” His voice rumbled. “All I can think—the only thought that enters my mind—is…” His body canted toward her, and she could not help but sway toward him. Until her bodice brushed his chest, until her fingers slid from his shoulder to his wrist, and the air in her lungs turned to fire.

  “All you can think,” she breathed.

  “All I can think,” he whispered, “is that you would want to be faithful to me.”

  His hand slipped under the neckline of her gown and drew it down to expose her shoulder. A swelling ache went through her. It should not have made her gasp aloud, that innocent touch—nothing but his fingers against her collarbone, his skin against hers. But it was his fingertips that dragged across her shoulder, his caress that sent sparks shooting down her arm. And the intent in his eyes—serious and deliberate—transformed that touch beyond all possible innocence.

  “If you were any other man,” she said, “I should think you were trying to have your way with me.”

  “If I were any other man,” he said, “you wouldn’t let me do it. But I’m me. And my way doesn’t involve any having. I am making you a promise, not a proposition.”

  Men always made promises at times like this, and Jessica had long learned to discount them. But Mark didn’t spell out the content of his promise. His lips brushed hers once more—gentle, not demanding. He didn’t fit into her understanding of the world.

  “You told me once that I was safe with you.” Jessica ran her hand up the linen of his sleeve, leaning into him as she did. His body was hard planes of muscle, strong and imperturbable. “One of the most damning things about celibacy is this—this inability to touch another person. Not to engage in intercourse. Just to touch.”

  He did not say anything, but his eyes fluttered shut.

  “Back when I was home with my sisters, I took touch for granted. That every night, there would be someone who would do up my hair in braids, that I might receive an embrace at bedtime, that I might jostle my sister in the morning with my elbow, to have her hurry while she washed.” She could not forget, it seemed, why she’d come. It returned to her, no matter how she tried to drive it away. Because now his hand had drifted to her hair in a sweet caress. He’d given her the comfort she’d needed.

  “After I left home,” she said, “I found a friend. Her name was Amalie. She wasn’t…she wasn’t what she should be, either. She gave me advice—hard advice that I needed to hear. She saved my life. For seven years, she was my reason to live—my one true friend, who I could count on through the most impossible hardship.”

  And now her eyes were beginning to sting. The tears that had evaded her earlier built.

  “I received word today that there was an accident in London.” Jessica took a deep breath. “And so now I am truly alone. No touch is innocent anymore. Even before this, there were days I was so hungry for simple warmth that I would have given up anything—anything—to have it.”

  He leaned into her. Her lips tingled in anticipation, but he didn’t kiss her. Instead, his arms came around her, pulling her close. His hand stroked down her spine, slowly, as if he were counting each vertebra and storing the memory in some cool cellar. She could feel his breath on her neck. Her eyes shivered shut, and she held on to him.

  Just an innocent embrace. And yet…not. He inhaled raggedly.

  “No,” he said softly. “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m starving for affection.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You’re not alone.”

  And maybe that was the substance of his unspoken promise. The muscles that held her so tightly were rigid with restrained want. His fingers bit into her spine, as if anchoring himself to reality. Just one caress from her, one little kiss, and she might unleash all his dammed-up desire. She could win. And if she did, even this embrace would be tarnished in her memory, all the warmth stolen away into sick certainty.

  No. She was alone, and she couldn’t let herself forget it. It was idiotic to nourish this sense of being wanted, to soak in his touch. To treasure, one last time, something sweet and unsullied. It was a foolish indulgence not to press her advantage now, not to slide her fingers under his waistband and inflame him further. Because if there was one rule that Amalie had burned into her memory, it was this: Survive. Survive at all costs.

  Now, she had to live for them both.

  He held on to her until his breath evened out, until the urgent tension faded from her grip.

  She was weak. She was indulgent. Because she couldn’t make herself ruin him today.

  She reached her hand up to touch his face and whispered to him. “Now…” she said quietly. “Now, I think it’s time I go home.”

  And this time, she let him go.

  THE RED LIGHT of the setting sun invaded Mark’s bedchamber. The rays bombarded him when he tried to look out his window. He could see only a trace of a silhouette—the echo of a hill, limned in crimson, impossible to focus on through the harsh sunset.

  When he turned away, an imprint of the sun remained, etched indelibly over his vision.

  Jessica was rather like that. When she was about, he burned. He couldn’t even see straight anymore. And when she was not… He had only to shut his eyes, and he could see her smile at him across a field of dandelions.

  Lust wasn’t a stranger. It wasn’t even an enemy. Lust had always seemed something of an itinerant peddler to Mark: always showing up when least expected, clamoring on his doorstep. Either you stopped up your ears and hoped that it would give up and go away, or you were driven past all hope of ignoring it. At that point, you made a token purchase—something you didn’t need and shouldn’t want.

  After what had happened earlier that night, his lust wasn’t going away. It had lodged underneath his skin, taking up its complaints in the form of a persistent throb.

  A breath of night wind curled through his window. Even that hint of coolness could not calm the storm of his thoughts. God, he wanted her. There was only one way to calm the clamor of his body.

  What he was about to do was classified as a sin. He unwound his cravat from his neck, setting his mouth in a grim line. But it was a case of kittens: better the little sin of relieving this tension, than risk losing his mind entirely the next time he was in her presence. And there would be a next time. And a next. And a time after that.

  The sun blinded him as he worked. But his vision was ruined in any event. Even without the sun, he wouldn’t have been able to see himself pull the tails of his shirt out. He wouldn’t have been able to make out the buttons on the fall of his trousers.

  No. In his mind, no matter what he willed, he saw her: the pins slipping from her hair. Her curls, drifting past pale shoulders. And in his mind, it wasn’t the dark red dress that she wore. It was the black shift he’d glimpsed underneath, clinging to her every curve.

  When he let his trousers fall to the ground, he was thinking about taking off her chemise. Of raising it, to show ankles he’d seen—and then more that he hadn’t. Calves. Thighs. If lust had clamored
in him before, it rose up in him now—powerful and impossible to displace. His skin seemed on fire.

  He was still standing. He shrugged out of his shirt; in his mind, he was not the only naked one. He caught hold of the carved wood post of his bed with one hand. With the other…

  It should have been a clinical act, what followed. It was a sin, after all—a lesser one than actually taking a woman to his bed, but a sin nonetheless. But it didn’t feel like a sin when his erection filled his palm. It didn’t feel like a sin when his grip tightened around his member. And when he thought of her lips against his, remembered the taste of her mouth, sweet against his tongue—she felt right, no matter what his reason said.

  It was not his own practiced touch that he felt, but the cool brush of her fingers. His imagination conjured up her body, sliding against his. Her hair, draping like cool silk over his chest. He strained forward, as if he might find her mouth.